


The End of Words

by JulieHoneycomb



Category: (オール・ユー・ニード・イズ・キル, All You Need Is Kill, Edge of Tomorrow (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieHoneycomb/pseuds/JulieHoneycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keiji sees Rita for the first time and she becomes his source of inspiration for writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doll

 

I stabbed the open notebook repeatedly as if it were to give me answers, then took a glance at my surroundings. There was nothing to give me ideas. The only thing that kept me there was the scent of coffee and the pleasant sounds that I could hear around me. Strangely pleasant. The talking of many people at the same time can be annoying, but they were calming for me. That and the sounds of glass on wooden tables, and mugs touching plates. However, a poem about that was something I yet couldn't trust myself to make meaningful.

 

The glass door was pushed and I turned to look at the person entering. First thing I noticed was chin-length red hair with bangs. Since I was in America I had seen some other redheads before, but she in particular had pretty, child-like features: Round face, big eyes and big flushed cheeks. For a moment I did suspect she was a teen, but her heels were too high and expertly walked on to make me think she was any younger than twenty. She was frowning slightly, and it seemed it was her neutral face. I stared at her until I felt she was going to look back at me, since she was looking around the place.

She was by herself, and when she had walked past me and gone to the counter, I picked the pen I hadn't realised I'd dropped. I started writing, not needing to take my eyes off her to write. It was hard to adopt the talent, but I could write clearly without looking at the paper. Some seconds passed. She'd ordered something with 'mocha' in the name and smiled, before turning her back at the counter and crossing her arms.

 

Even though I had only one line written, I didn't feel hopeless, because she apparently was staying. She sat three seats from me, on a sofa, and I felt it was the most convenient time to look at her fully. The way her outfit was put together —she was wearing a short sky-blue skirt and a white blouse with lace details— put the word 'doll' into my work. I smiled at the feeling that all writers strive for, that one of finding the ideal word for something.

My notes were:

«One thing I've predicted.... ?? ...Doll ? »

 

I wanted to use that last word as a metaphor for something. Maybe social, personal, whatever, but I still had to think on the meaning of the actual poem. Nothing too intense had happened to me lately, nor did I have any special view that I hadn't expressed yet in another work, but I needed to write another one for discipline, to be productive. My last poem had been written several weeks ago, and I hadn't worked in my novel in more than three months. A source of inspiration had come from the heavens.

 

Her body made her look even younger, actually. She had kind of a flat chest, but her waist was noticeably smaller than her hips.

 

When she got called to receive her coffee, I heard her saying 'Thank you'. Her voice, although a bit deeper than I had expected, was soft, delicate. Her posture was confident and strong.

I looked back at my notebook. I still had only five words, and I was running out of time, because I had to be back at my apartment in forty-five minutes. No one was expecting me, of course. I simply had stuff to do back there, that I didn't want to leave for another day. I lived alone, I went to cafés alone, I read alone in the park and I walked in the weekdays to work, alone. Sometimes I wondered if solitude made you a better writer, or if it was some kind of requirement to have few people close to you. To add up, I was actually an only child and almost all of my kin lived in Japan.

 

I continued to look at her while she drank her coffee. She took out a book from her purse, then it landed on me: We were the only two in the place who were by ourselves, and seemingly with no purpose. She started reading. There was no better moment than that to stare at her as obviously and for as long as I wanted, but there was no point in doing it if I was going to have nothing done by the end.

I thought of what I wanted exactly. I initially thought of starting to write a long poem, since most of mine were pretty short, but the need to have finished work in little time was snapping fingers at me. A Haiku. It could easily be done in forty minutes or so. While I looked at her mouth, I thought of the other words I could put in there. I disregarded my initial sentence to use it for another time.

«Dolls — like A, turn B into C»

 

She drank more coffee and licked her pink lips.

No. The structure wasn't very traditional.

 

«Dolls turn A into B, like C»

 

But what could those ABC's be filled with? 'Snow', 'blood', I couldn't get to think of a way in which it would sound like I hadn't completely pulled it out of my ass for an excuse to use the first word. I thought of a way to change it to something better, something that made more sense as I kept looking at this girl. Her delicate-looking hand was holding the book firmly.

 

«Turning A into B, dolls (do C)»

 

Did I even want to use 'turning' and 'into'? Poems are meant to be personal. This poem had to be about her. What was this doll turning something of mine into? And what was that other thing she did simultaneously?

 

She smiled. For a moment I feared she had seen me or being conscious of my staring all this time, but she looked only at the book, meaning (Or maybe it was just like I wanted to interpret it) she was reacting to something written on the book. She turned to the next page.

 

«Turning A into B, dolls keep silent.»

 

That's what dolls really do, actually. I can't just keep it as a metaphor that only I can relate to what really happens. Generally dolls are silent, and this one is no exception. But what's something they turn into something else?

 

If I were to use 'turn blood into sugar' or something like that, it would figure that there is no depth to my haiku, and I'm only lusting after a woman I interpret as a doll. I thought of new words that made it sound less cheesy, but they were so long that it made the phrase lose rhythm.

 

I stared again at her. I didn't know the first thing about this girl, but I guessed she didn't particularly like romantic media. The book she read was Fahrenheit 451. I was mindlessly looking at her mostly uncovered legs, and then looked at her skirt, her chest, her neck until I realized she was lowering her book and I was sure she directly looked at me at that moment. My gaze met her brown eyes. I was unsure of what to do, but decided to make eye contact for some seconds, and then she broke it.

 

«Turning rooms into sanctuaries, dolls keep silent.»

 


	2. Habit

Before I went to sleep I had to make a list of things to do the next day. It had become a habit to write down small goals to achieve in the next day, and it really did seem to be helping me gain motivation for the big things in my life. First I wrote to organize my books. They were not all scattered all over the floor or anything, but I wanted a specific way to have them. I was debating on whether do have them by colour or height, and ended up leaving the decision for later and focus on writing another small thing to accomplish the next day.

Then I wrote «return to coffee...» and stopped. I crossed out the words. I didn't need to do that, in fact I had to change my locations as much as possible. Not so much because I didn't want to go back, but it really didn't hurt to know more places of the city, especially because I didn't want to turn into the kind of person to never step out of their comfort zone. But by that moment I had already visited most places in the city in which I could sit to write. Lying to myself, I wrote «find another place to write». I was sure I was going to go back to that coffee shop. I also knew I was secretly hoping to see that girl again, but I didn't even think of writing it for a moment. I always write and read these lists as if there was the possibility someone else could see them. The odds were against it but I always place that scenario in my head at the moment of writing anything. Maybe that's why I don't normally get too far in one single day.

It wasn't until I tried to fall asleep that it landed on me: There was something I needed in order to continue writing and I very possibly had lost it when I let her leave the cafe without asking her anything. And I even continued to stare as she left, but did nothing. The chances of meeting her again were slim to none, but as I had secretly promised myself, I'd go back to the same place and hope for the best.

I didn't specify when. After I tried to get sleepy again, I realized I was starting to shake. I almost felt anxious for some reason, as if I needed to go out in that exact moment and search for her in the place I last saw her before it was too late. «Too late for what?» I kept asking myself, knowing the answer. Recognizing that it was the same to not sleep at home and not sleep outside, I stood up and walked towards the door of my bedroom. Alone in the hallway, I went towards the main door staring at myself in the mirror hanging on it. I opened it with one hand and pushed it towards the external hallway, at which you could look from any point of the land. I have no doubt that maybe someone, somewhere, stared at me with concern as I went upstairs and arrived to the street.

I had no plans on going anywhere but the café. Maybe even stay there for the rest of the night if necessary, considering I had nowhere else to go other than my own place. I went to the metro station though I knew finding her would be unlikely, but given that I had visited that place only once before, and didn't know how often she went, I was hopeful.

Some walked with difficulty and seemed pale with nausea in the subway. More paranoid than usual of someone puking on me, I tried to physically get further from others, which because of the hour wasn't hard. It was four in the morning. Rushed, I arrived to the station I wanted, and ran out, mentally trying to picture the way to go. It wasn't far enough for me to get tired, and when I saw the familiar glass double door I almost forgot to see both ways before crossing the street. Finally I got inside and sat on the same spot, looking around. I was not going to sleep that night. I kept her image on my mind so it would be easier to recognize her from afar.

Until I felt the stares of the barista, I didn't remember I had to order something so I could stay there. I stood up and looked at him, not caring that I probably had some unjustified expression on my face. I felt my brows making a frown, and my lips were tightly shut until I spoke.  
''Please... Red eye.'' Maybe I could have constructed my sentence well if I hadn't interrupted myself when I turned around at the sound of what I interpreted as a step behind me.  
My senses had probably sharpened for a moment, because walking past the shop was a short, slim figure. Red hair as I could see when the light of the public lamps fell on her head.

I gave him the money that I hadn't even made sure I had before I left my apartment. I had no time to waste and had no other opportunity assured like last time, so I walked walked with long steps towards the front door and went outside.  
''Excuse me'' I said. I tried to be loud enough but not aggressive sounding, though by her initial reaction I probably did come off as the latter. She turned around.  
''Huh-''  
''Can I get your name?'' I asked. It wasn't my best way to come off, and also I didn't think on the fact that she easily could give me a different name from hers. I didn't think much at 4 am at all.  
''Rita'' she said, and left immediately. Maybe to avoid me asking her last name too or something. Putting myself on her shoes now, I wouldn't have had even given the short of my first name to a complete stranger that I may or may not have known was doing something close to stalking me.

I was satisfied, and didn't need to do more than taking my coffee before going back home.


	3. Cat On Tin Roof

I'm unproductive. And apart from not doing things that I'm supposed to do, I also do things I'm not supposed to. Every time I went inside a business I asked if someone who worked there was called Rita. I searched her name in all social media websites I could make an account for. I made up stuff about her life for myself. I imagined things about her. She wasn't in the coffee shop the last time I went, which was today. While I sat on the couch she was on that last time, I started writing 'fuck' several times like I was practising my handwriting. At least I was using my notebook for something.  
I couldn't have been that creepy to her. I looked as young as I was. Maybe being a writer isn't as romantic as being a musician or a painter. I guess they are to Americans.  
«I can't prepare» I wrote after the many lines of «fuckfuckfuck». Because there's things nobody can prepare for. Not even the good things. The word «prepare» was in a song I was listening to. But it made no sense. It was meaningless. Maybe I could be romantic and say that I couldn't prepare for something good, that was her.  
«No matter how much  
I want to,  
I can't prepare myself  
for something  
I don't understand.»  
What does that even mean? I can't write romance. I'm too vague when trying to not be corny. It does make sense. I can't understand other people's lives. That includes Rita's.  
The coffee shop was quieter than usual, and it built a need inside me to leave. I fought the cold while walking on the streets, because I was trying to find short red hair among all the heads that I walked past. At some point, a scent of cheesecake made me actually enter somewhere. As soon as I did, I noticed the contrast of baby blue walls against red hair. My mouth watered. She looked much closer to her age, since the length of her tight, pink dress was letting me see the shape of her legs and her heels elongated them. Here women prefer to look womanly than to look cute and girly. I can't complain. I guess it's kind of sick, after all, to want women to look like children. She held a small piece of cake inside a plastic, triangle shaped box.  
''Is there something on my face?'' she asked. I couldn't avoid opening my eyes wide enough for me to look shocked. I wasn't, though. I was embarrassed. She probably had recognized me as the guy who wouldn't stop staring at her those two times.  
''No... no.'' She only focused on my face after that.  
''Well, hello.'' I was sure her tone was sarcastic and I figured that then remembered my face. My accent was obvious when I replied back with ''Hello.'' I was thankful her name didn't have any L's or consonants stuck to each other.  
As she dodged me to leave the place, I imagined her flirting with someone. It was a man who wasn't me but was supposed to be. I felt it was me but he didn't look like me. Before losing sight of her, I wrote on my own hand.  
«Another person/A different person  
Who is me.»  
Although I walked towards her, I was debating on whether or not to speak to her. I was insisting too much and I knew it. But I needed to know her. She stopped at a place where people weren't walking near as much as where I was. Approaching her meant sliding between other people. It was one of the things that I disliked the most to do. However, I did let my clothes make contact with other people when I walked towards Rita.  
''Excuse me.'' I said, just as I had done the last time I saw her. ''I want to know more about you.''  
She took her time deciding on what to tell me, and if she even wanted to look at me. After a few seconds, she looked at me.  
''Why?''  
I should have been prepared for that question.  
''You seem interesting... And I also find you very slutty.''  
''Excuse me?''  
In my defense, I didn't know much about compliments in English. Based on porn actresses being called 'sluts', or girl's comments on social media, I thought it referred to attractive women. And besides, 'slutty' is a word very close to 'sexy'. Her eyebrows raised.  
''I'm sorry, is that bad?'' I asked her. My face started to feel warmer.  
She closed her eyes and started making slow, deep breaths, maybe to calm herself. I don't want to word the things I made up on my head as that happened.  
''Well, I'm sorry... I didn't mean anything bad.'' At that moment I still thought that it bothered her just because I was making comments on her appearance.  
''You know, it doesn't matter. Clearly you don't know what that means anyway.'' That last phrase told me I was mistaken in my choice of words. I looked at the ground, thinking of something honest but warm to tell her. She then made sounds like she was crying, but I turned to look at her eyes again and she laughed. I wasn't sure if she was laughing at me, but I started laughing too because I couldn't help it. Her laugh was nice and the shape of her lips while she did it was inviting and sweet, like a human version of looking at the dessert she held with both hands.  
«If you were less human,  
you'd be edible.»  
I repeated the words inside my head because I couldn't write that on my hand after the laughter started leaving her. She was looking at me.  
''What is it?'' I asked her almost in a whisper, so she wouldn't interpret my question as me being annoyed.  
''Sometimes people speak the truth by accident.'' She told me. ''I think it's funny that you did.''  
''I... what?'' I was all I could say. ''I really don't know what I said. I'm sorry if it was wrong.'' I told her.  
''It's not.'' She said. ''Anyway...''  
Her hand got closer to mine and before I was ready, she took the pen that I held in my right hand. I probably had made another shocked expression, and I was closer to it then. People didn't touch me, and touch was somewhat uncomfortable. She wrote something on my hand.  
''It's my surname.'' she said.  
«Vrataski»  
I repeated the name out loud. She smiled, I thought she might have been trying to supress a laugh.  
''Yeah, search for me and we can talk to each other to meet somewhere again.'' She said, and then she started walking away from me.  
I spent so much time thinking of what to reply that she was already far from me when I looked back, so I went back home.  
After writing down the phrase I'd been repeating, I took all clothes but my underwear off. However, after I tucked myself between the sheets, I created so many situations and images involving Rita that I had to take off my boxers and put them away.


End file.
